


Vinyl and Lace

by objectlesson



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Crossdressing Kink, Dirty Talk, Established Relationship, Fluff, Forced Feminization, Humiliation, M/M, PWP, Panties, Skirts, The X Factor Era, implied servitude kink, stupidly sweet boyfriends, x factor - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-02
Updated: 2016-11-02
Packaged: 2018-08-28 16:42:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8453986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/objectlesson/pseuds/objectlesson
Summary: Harry tries on a skirt in the X Factor dressing room as a joke. Louis doesn't think it's very funny.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Hi everyone!
> 
> So it was only a matter of time before I wrote something about Harry in panties. It's like....something I think about a lot. My own preferences couples with that footage from the X Factor where Harry jokes about wearing a skirt and Louis is like "that was last night" or something like that???!! These boys are so freaking transparent with their kinks and fetishes, it's not my fault!
> 
> Thanks again to all of you for being the best and most exciting, enthusiastic, wild fandom I've ever had the pleasure of joining. I've been getting a lot of asks and comments inquiring about whether or not I'm gonna stay and keep writing about them and the answer is yes, one hundred times over. I have like ten WIPs in progress and a million more ideas and I will be writing HL fic well into the foreseeable future. I love them and I love you all. Thanks for making it so fun. 
> 
> Forever thankful to my beta Hurdy Gurdy, who will occasionally text me things a long the lines of "Harry is wearing panties RIGHT NOW" and give me a subsequent heart attack at work. I love you.

The X-Factor dressing room is a veritable disaster. Even _without_ the pre-show madness of crew members bustling around and Niall spilling water all over the couch and Liam doing his god-awful vocal exercises in the corner, it’s a disaster. It’s like no one has organized it in the last seven years, resulting in a mishmash of clothing and costume props littered all over every surface and hanging in a wardrobe like a technicolor tour through best-forgotten early 2000s fashion. Harry _badly_ wants to spend an entire day exploring it, searching through the whole collection for secret, unexpected treasures. He’s sure there are probably some really cool things hidden amid all the moth-eaten blazers and sequined dresses. 

 

He also just wants to clean it up; messes like this spark an inexplicable drive in Harry to catalogue and fold and discard and dust. He loves the idea of keeping house, of putting things in an order that makes sense. He suspects it might have something to do with the fact that he’s recently fallen in love for the first time and wants to _nest_ as a result. He’s caving in to his nesting/cleaning/organizing drive when he finds the skirt. 

 

There are plenty of women’s clothes in the dressing room that he could squeeze into, but this particular skirt catches his attention because it’s, like…plastic, or something. Latex or vinyl. It feels like a rubber glove, and it’s shiny and the lightest pink, even lighter than the blush pink that makes Harry think of ballet, a pink so pale it’s very nearly white. The image he conjures up in his head of himself wearing this weird plastic baby pink cheer-leader skirt is too hilarious to pass up, so he yanks it off the hanger and shimmies out of his jeans. 

 

The zipper is broken, so it hangs loose and awkwardly low on his hips, plus it’s so short it disappears under the loose slouch of his tee shirt, which he tucks in so the skirt doesn’t entirely disappear. He adjusts the whole ensemble, hopping awkwardly on one foot since the other is still stuck in his jeans. He kicks them off entirely just before he busts in on the other boys, who are gathered around the backstage telly anxiously watching footage of last week’s performance, which is a Liam Ritual he’s managed to rope all of them into. 

 

“Happy birthday, Mr. President,” Harry croons in his best Marilyn Monroe voice, fist curled around an imaginary microphone as he skids into the room. “Happy birthdaayyyy….tooo….” 

 

Before Harry can finish, Zayn is throwing something at him. “Aaahh, Harry! Somehow that’s even worse than you naked, take it off!” 

 

Harry ducks out of the way, batting his eyelashes in Zayn’s direction. “Sure you’re not just jealous of my model’s physique?” 

 

“Ugh, it really is worse than when you’re naked,” Liam observes, brows cocked as he surveys Harry’s impromptu drag, the skirt hanging unevenly above his knees, chicken legs jutting out awkwardly from beneath the slant. “I think it’s the hairy calves. Just looks wrong.” 

 

“Heeeeyy,” Harry says reproachfully, hands on his hips. “Nothing wrong with a little leg hair, Liam.” 

 

Zayn’s back to watching the telly, Niall is rolling around on the couch, incoherent with laughter, and Liam looks about 3.5 seconds away from launching into an ill-timed lecture. But Harry doesn’t care because his eyes are trained on Louis. 

 

Louis hasn’t said anything at all, which is remarkable because Louis _always_ has something to say. He’s just kind of staring, eyebrows raised and mouth slack. There’s a flush staining his cheeks, too, and Harry is very pleased because Louis hardly ever blushes, and bringing color to his face might be one of Harry’s most valiantly sought-after goals. 

 

“What are you looking at, Lou?” he asks innocently, grabbing the back of the couch and pushing his ass out, how he imagines girls in cheerleader skirts are supposed to stand in skirts like these. “Is it worse than me naked?” 

 

Louis, usually the master of quick recoveries, flounders a bit before regaining control. His mouth snaps shut and his eyes flash in a _you’re gonna get it later_ way, but he manages to say, “ _Absolutely_ , it’s, like, that awkward length that’s too short to be modest and too long to be sexy. My eyes are _burning_ , Harry, take it off.” 

 

His voice is a little reedy, though, and Harry’s not the only one who notices. He beams as Niall sits up and pokes Louis in the ribs, choking out a strangled, “C’mon mate, don’t play cool. There’s time to go wreck him in the bathroom before we go on. I know you want to.” 

 

“ _Manners_ , Niall!” Louis shrieks, grabbing Niall around the waist and tickling him fiercely. “No one gets to talk about wrecking Harry ‘cept me. Even if you’re talking about me wrecking Harry. It’s still against the rules.” 

 

“Ugh, no one wants to _think_ about you wrecking Harry, can we stop?” Liam whines, eyes falling back on Harry and his skirt, which he has been coyly flipping from side to side, chewing on his lips while he watches Louis watch him. He mostly thought he was going to get a laugh out of this stunt, and making Louis laugh is almost as good as making him blush, honestly. But he’s pleasantly surprised by the way Louis is looking at him, like he actually _likes_ the way Harry looks in this absurd get-up, like he thinks it’s genuinely sexy. If an ugly plastic cheerleader skirt practically falling off Harry’s hips is something Louis is into, he can work with that. He can work with anything Louis is into. 

 

“Shuttap, lads,” Zayn groans. “M’trying to hear us.” 

 

Everyone falls quiet then, and Harry locks gazes with Louis for entirely too long. Every time this happens, he’s stunned by how _hot_ such a bright shade of blue can get, how far his stomach can plummet just from looking at someone in the eye. _Bathroom_ , Louis mouths, looking at Harry demurely through his lashes. 

 

Harry does not need to be told twice. 

 

—-

 

They don’t even make it into a stall. Louis backs Harry up against the sink counter and pins him to it with his hips, pulling his shirt out of the waistband of the skirt and up around his shoulders so that he can see the way his hands look cupping the pale curve of his back in the mirror, the way they look pushing under pink vinyl so that he can squeeze greedy fistfuls of his ass. Louis isn’t sure why, but Harry looks _so fucking cute_ in this stupid skirt that it’s _unfair_. He feels desperate, frustrated. He feels _inspired_. 

 

Harry pushes back against him, all ragged breath and fumbling hands as he ruts hard into his hip, and _fuck_ , it’s insane how hot that is, the outline of Harry’s cock visible through the blush pink vinyl of his skirt. Like, it shouldn’t be so hot, but Louis feels _weak_ just thinking about it, just looking.

 

“What do you think you’re _doing_ , pulling this shit before we perform?” Louis pants into Harry’s neck, inhaling desperately from his skin as he inches his fingers up the skirt, down his briefs, and into the crack of his ass. He’s so _warm_ there, warm and sweat-damp, and Louis knows his fingers will smell like him after this is over, and his cock twitches spectacularly in his khakis at the thought. 

 

“Wasn’t trying to get you all hot, just thought…dunno, thought it was funny,” Harry says breathlessly, and the thing is, Louis already _knows_ that. He could tell Harry was just goofing off, putting on this stupid, ugly, ill-fitting skirt as a _joke_ , and it doesn’t even make sense for him to him to be so turned on by it. But it doesn’t matter, he _is_. 

 

He shrugs, palming Harry’s ass apart so he can get his fingers deeper, brush the tips over the fluttering rim of muscle, rub them against his hole how he wants. Harry whines pathetically, and the sound goes straight to Louis’s dick. “ _So_ funny,” he teases, lips against the shell of Harry’s ear. “You made me pop a semi next to _Niall_ , you animal.” 

 

“Lou,” Harry murmurs thickly, arching his back and pushing his ass into Louis’s hands, standing on his toes to bear down on him, catching his lips in a searing, filthy kiss. Louis groans and kisses back hard, but Harry pulls away too fast, leaving Louis’s mouth feeling hungry, empty. “I didn’t know you were, like…into this,” he says in a low voice. “Me’n girls clothes. Would have tried on a dress sooner if I knew you were gonna get all crazy like this.” He grins then, almost shyly, and it’s the kind of grin that makes Louis’s guts twist up in painful disbelief because Harry’s lips are so beautiful, and he’s so amazed that he gets to kiss them at all, that any of this is happening, that he hasn’t woken up from this insane fever dream where he’s got a chance at winning the X-Factor and gets to be in love with a perfect boy. 

 

Louis pitches forward and bites Harry’s lower lip, overcome with adoration and arousal. He’s also kind of _outraged_ that they’ve only got a few minutes left to rub one out on each other if they’re going to do this at all, and that Harry’s _talking_ instead of kissing. They need to report back to the dressing room for makeup and hair soon, and there are so, so many things he wants to do to Harry. Namely, bend him over this counter, flip that stupid skirt over his ass, yank down his briefs, and finger him open until he’s crying. Harry always cries when Louis fingers him, it’s, like, this unbearably beautiful thing about him, and he’s told Louis one hundred times it’s not because it hurts but because it feels so _good_ , and Louis _badly_ wants to make him feel good like that, he wants to see him feel good in his absurd skirt. 

 

He wants Harry’s cock so hard it’s leaking, smearing precum all over the inside of that blush pink vinyl. He wants to get on his knees and hold Harry open and lick him out; he feels fucking _dizzy_ with how badly he wants to get under his skirt. He takes his frustration out into their kisses, sucking desperately on Harry’s tongue, chewing his perfect lips so hard he cries out, yelps into the heat of Louis’s mouth. “God, see?” Harry murmurs, swallowing thickly with hazy, blown eyes. “You’re so into it.” 

 

“I’m not into _it_ especially,” Louis lies, not feeling totally ready to let Harry know the extent of the wild fervor he’s feeling right now, the desperation with which he wants to take him apart in his skirt. He doesn’t think the X-Factor backstage bathroom, a few hours or so before they go on, is the best place for kink negotiation. “I’m just really into _you_. And you were sauntering around back there _singing_ like Marilyn Monroe, what was I supposed to do?” 

 

Harry’s grinding solidly into Louis’s thigh, deliberate circles with little stilted bucks at the end, and Louis can tell he’s getting close; Harry is so easy to read, and he always comes so fast that Louis has to work hard and go really slow if he wants him to hold on past a few minutes. “I don’t know,” he says, mouth open on Louis’s shoulder, breath hot and fast. “Wait until tonight? When we have more time?” 

 

“Never enough time,” Louis reminds him, grinding his hips back, pushing Harry up against the counter so hard the backs of his thighs dimple bloodlessly from getting ground against it. He drags his hands down Harry’s soft hips, flipping the skirt up so he can see where they’re touching, Harry’s hard in his briefs and pushed up against Louis’s thigh, soaking through the soft heather grey so there’s an obvious wet spot. It’s beautiful, and Louis wants to press his mouth to it so he can suck the slick out of the fabric; he wants so many fucking things he doesn’t have time for, and it’s _maddening_. He settles for rubbing his open palm over Harry’s cock, gripping him clumsily through his cotton briefs as he murmurs, “God, baby, you’re so wet,” into Harry’s ear. 

 

Harry predictably shoots off as he hears it, shaking hard in Louis’s arms and whimpering before sagging into him, a hot, heavy mess.“Are you sure this isn’t some weird skirt thing?” he asks in a daze as Louis spins him around, heart thundering at the perfect way Harry folds easily over the counter, thighs parted and cheeks red as he pants there bonelessly, skirt hiked up around his waist in a ruin. “Seems like a weird skirt thing.” 

 

“S’not,” Louis says stubbornly, mauling his hands all over Harry’s back, thighs, whatever he can reach. “S’more like—-ah, fuck,” Louis mumbles, breath catching as he rubs his cock against Harry’s ass, loving the way Harry pushes back into him easily, his round little bum in his tight briefs, all under the hem of that skirt. It’s so pretty; too pretty. Louis doesn’t know how to get anything done around here when Harry exists, when Harry does shit like wearing _cheerleader skirts_ in public. “I’m gonna come fast,” he says breathlessly, fumbling to get his cock out of his trackies before he finishes inside of them. “You want to feel it, on your skin?” 

 

“Ugh, yes,” Harry whimpers, reaching behind himself with shaky hands and tugging his briefs down around the pale curve of his ass. “Please.” 

 

Louis gets his dick out of his trousers just in time, emptying himself in a messy snap of his hips all over Harry’s pert bum and lower back. Some of it gets on the skirt, and it seems so fucking dirty and incredible that Louis gasps, insides clenching up painfully. “God,” he murmurs, staring in awe at the sticky white of his come clinging to pink vinyl. 

 

Harry peels himself off the counter and presses a sloppy kiss to the corner of Louis’s mouth. “You came all over the skirt,” he observes, dipping his fingers into it, smearing it over the hem so Louis feels like he’s going into cardiac arrest. “Guess it’s ours, now, can’t exactly put that back on the hanger, can we?” 

 

“Lucky you,” Louis says, wiping himself off with some paper towels and tucking himself back into his trackies shakily. “New wardrobe addition, huh, mate?” 

 

He’s saying, _lucky you_ , but he’s thinking, _lucky me_. 

 

—

 

Harry forgets about the skirt, mostly. It gets shoved into his suitcase in the X-Factor house, and everything since then has been such a whirlwind of motion and madness that he hasn’t even properly touched his luggage. He and Louis are still less than half moved into their new London flat, and on top of that, they’re leaving again for the X-Factor tour next week so it seems pointless to really _unpack_. Anyway, it’s not like Harry is actively looking for ways to pique Louis’s interest. Everything about being with Louis, every single little thing, is still so new and exciting. 

 

He doesn’t think of it again until Louis thunders up the stairs the lazy Wednesday afternoon before the tour, following his morning footie in the park. He bursts into their bedroom looking positively maniacal, grinning wickedly and cradling a package. “This came in the post,” he says, toeing off his cleats and socks and pulling his jersey over his head after tossing the package onto the bed. “It’s for you.” 

 

“M’ not expecting anything,” Harry murmurs, setting his tea down on the bedside table and reaching in slow motion for the package that’s supposedly for him. Before he gets to it, though, Louis snatches it up lightning quick.

 

“That’s because it’s a gift. I got some stuff for you,” he says, shaking the package like a kid at Christmas. He’s positively _glowing_ , and Harry is a little afraid, mind scrambling desperately to imagine all the potential items this package might contain, all the things that could have Louis so _buzzing_. 

 

“What stuff?” Harry asks, making grabby hands and furrowing his brow. “What…I want to see.” 

 

Louis drops the package onto his lap then, beaming. “Hope they fit, not exactly sure of your size,” he says, trailing off as Harry tears into the packaging, pulling out a handful of tissue paper before his eyes fall on—-oh. 

 

Harry flushes deeply, his cheeks getting so hot so quickly it almost hurts. He pulls out an entire handful of neatly folded women’s panties in different colors and textures. Lace and silk, soft and creamy and slippery in his newly sweating hands. “Um…,” he says, dropping them incredulously on the bed. “What are these?” Then, because it’s just occurred to him that this is a practical joke, he squawks, “Are you _serious_? Are you making fun of me?” 

 

Louis makes a face like Harry is crazy for even suggesting such a thing. “No! Not at all. Most definitely serious. Figured I’d order some stuff online and have it shipped, as much as I like the idea of taking you to a department store and making you try things on there. This is, like, a little more discreet. Since we’re popstars and all now.” 

 

Harry stares, his cheeks still so fucking _hot_. “You want me to _wear_ these?” 

 

Louis licks his lips. “Yes. You remember when you tried on that skirt, the one backstage? Been thinking about getting you in something like this ever since. And now we have a whole fucking flat and like four days off, so, I made it happen.” 

 

Harry is practically sputtering in a weird, shamed disbelief. He can’t believe Louis has _thought_ about this, thought about it and wanted it so bad he actually, like, _planned it out_ enough to make sure he got what he wanted. He imagines Louis secretly shopping for these things online, clicking through pages of women’s lingerie and imagining Harry in it, trying to figure out what size he’d wear, what would look best on him. It’s really hot, and also, Harry is somehow _touched_. He feels very special. “I remember,” he says softly. “You were such an idiot about it, dragged me off to the bathroom and made me come in my pants.” 

 

Louis nods. “I was a mess. You looked so fit.” 

 

Harry rolls his eyes, still only partially sure this is actually happening to him, that they're actually having this conversation about him _wearing women’s underwear_. “I looked ridiculous,” he says reproachfully, wrinkling his nose up at Louis. “It was such a weird length, and my legs were all hairy and—”

 

“Ugh, I know, I know. I _remember_ , it’s, like, permanently burnt into my brain, thank you very much,” Louis explains, smiling wistfully before sucking the insides of his cheeks, hollowing them out in this way that always makes Harry’s stomach drop. 

 

“You’re weird,” Harry says because it’s true, crossing his arms over his chest. 

 

“ _You’re_ weird,” Louis counters, standing with his hip popped out beside the bed, eyes flicking between Harry’s face and the stack of underwear expectantly. “You’re also insanely sexy. Wanted you _so_ bad in that skirt, wanted to push you up against the mirror and flip that skirt over your bum and finger you, just like that. I would have, if we had the time and space, and we _do now_. Soooo….,” he says, waggling his eyebrows. 

 

Harry’s stomach is a mess of shamed, hungry knots. He genuinely can’t imagine himself looking anything but hilarious in these underwear, but just the knowledge that Louis would think he looked good enough to fingerfuck in a public toilet is enough to have him squirming. He likes it when Louis is turned on by something that embarrasses him because the sensation of being embarrassed, the hot cheeks and nervous butterflies, all translate as arousal to Harry. He likes doing things for Louis he normally wouldn’t dream of doing; he likes being his perfect boy. Or girl. Whatever. “Is this like…,” he furrows his brow, suddenly insecure as he stares at these pretty lacy things that aren’t even going to _fit_ all of him properly. “You wouldn’t like me better if I was a girl, would you?” 

 

Louis makes an incredulous face, then hops barefoot onto the bed over Harry, jostling his prone body between his legs. “Hazza. First off, I couldn’t possibly like you more than I already do. I already like you so much it’s amazing the world hasn’t ended, yeah?” he says, looking down at Harry and jabbing him in the ribs with cold toes. 

 

Harry giggles in spite of himself, grabbing Louis’s foot and squirming away so he doesn’t get tickled. “Yeah, okay.” 

 

“ _Second off_...,” Louis starts, lowering his voice so it’s nothing but a rough, lovely scrape. Harry spreads out on the bed, grinning up at Louis as he continues, “S’got nothing to do with girls. Like…I want to see your prick in lace. Want to suck you through it.” 

 

Harry swallows, fidgeting because he can tell Louis is _serious_ by the way his eyes get dark, the way he’s chewing on his lower lip and looking all hazy-eyed, like the idea of Harry’s cock getting hard, trapped in that absurd, silky fabric is the hottest thing he’s ever thought about. 

 

“Okay,” he says then because he does whatever Louis wants him to, feels _safe_ and sexy and excited to do it because he can see how much Louis wants it. Even if it’s something that should be gross or embarrassing or something that Harry can’t fathom the sexiness of _at all_ , Louis looks at him like this, and he _wants_ to do it. 

 

“Good,” Louis announces before cannonballing onto the bed beside Harry, throwing his arms around his waist and nuzzling up into his tummy gratefully, like a dog that’s just gotten a treat. “You’re gonna look so good, I can hardly think about it without getting hot,” he groans, craning his neck up and biting Harry’s arm, hard enough that Harry has to make a conscious effort to push into the sharpness of it, exhale so the pain of it goes straight to his cock, rather than just hurting like it will if he cants away. “I love you,” Louis says through his teeth, sucking sharply at the skin he has between his teeth before letting Harry go. 

 

“I love you, too,” Harry mumbles, carefully disentangling one of the pairs of underwear from the others, face hot as he imagines actually putting it on. It’s made from a totally sheer fabric, cream color with a black lace hem and a tiny bow at the front. He tongues the corner of his mouth, cock thickening up against his thigh at the thought of Louis _picking these out_ online, imagining him in them. 

 

“Which ones do you want to see me in first?” he asks, clearing his throat. 

 

Louis hides his face in Harry’s side for a moment before coming up for air, inhaling raggedly like this is all too much. “Oh, god. Um, let me see,” he says lightly, spreading out on his belly and arranging the underwear in a row to examine. There are spots of color on his cheeks and his eyes are a little too bright, the absolute loveliest thing, and Harry _wants_ to look pretty for him now, has totally bypassed the stage where this feels like something he’ll need to make fun of to get through. He’s imagining the scrape of lace against his cock, the way the hems will cut into his thighs a little as he grinds against Louis in them. “Start with these,” Louis says, picking out a pair of wine-colored boy shorts and smoothing them out over Harry’s thigh. “I love you in this color.” 

 

“You do?” Harry scoffs, uncertain if he even _owns_ anything in this color, which he can only describe as _cranberry_. “Like that one hoodie?” 

 

“Yep. Except they’re knickers instead of a hoodie. Get them on, please, m’dying,” Louis mumbles, sitting up on his haunches, and Harry makes a sharp, involuntary noise in the back of his throat because Louis is already so hard, tenting the front of his joggers, palming himself clumsily. “ _Please_.” 

 

Harry widens his eyes because _he’s_ usually the one saying “please” like that, all hoarse and weak and desperate. He grabs the boy shorts and crushes them into a tiny, soft ball in his fist, hopping off the bed awkwardly. He’s half-hard, too, thick and hot in his pajamas, and he’s going to have to get all that in this absurd scrap of fabric, he’s gonna go tuck himself into a pair of _cranberry knickers for Louis_ , and the prospect has him so hot, so shaky. “Okay. I’ll be back,” he murmurs.

 

He feels Louis’s eyes burning into his back as he pads off to the bathroom. 

 

—-

 

Louis is already palming his dick through his joggers, skin feeling hot and too tight as he listens to the sounds of Harry fidgeting in the bathroom. Harry _putting on panties for him_ in the bathroom. Jesus. 

 

He swallows thickly, mouth dry and heart pounding as he stretches out on the bed on his side, inhaling greedily from Harry’s pillow, sucking in the sweet, dirty smell of his hair. “Hazza!” He shouts, getting impatient. “You haven’t gotten stuck in there, have you?” 

 

“Noo….,” Harry mumbles from behind the locked door. “They’re on.” 

 

Louis’s heart fucking _stops_. He can picture it, the way the waistband is gonna bite into Harry’s soft bits, his padded hips and the curve of his bum. The way his cock and balls are going to look trapped in lace. He feels like he’s vibrating in anticipation, the whole of him trembling with how badly he can’t wait to get his hands and mouth all over his boy, take him apart. “They are?” Louis croaks, throat tight. “Well, go on, then. Come out.” 

 

“I don’t know if you’re going to like it,” Harry warns, such a fucking _absurd_ thing to say that Louis laughs to himself, lolling helplessly onto his back. “I think it looks kind of silly.” 

 

“Harry. What _ever_ you look like, I’m gonna like it. I already like it, I’m hard for you just _thinking_ about it, mate,” he sighs, gripping his cock through his joggers and squeezing, feeling the heat of his own skin through the fabric, raw and filthy. “Please?” he adds. 

 

The door creaks open, and Harry pokes his curly head through the crack, scrunching his nose up at Louis skeptically. “I just think you’re probably going to laugh.” 

 

He’s flushed high up on his cheeks, fidgeting nervously with the door knob and twisting it back and forth. He looks _mortified_ , and Louis _loves it_ , loves the way his toes are inevitably curling up on the bathroom tile, the way he's _squirming_ in discomfort. He loves when Harry is self-conscious like this; he’s usually so effortlessly calm and confident that Louis feels like he’s being let in on a dirty secret every time he sees _this_ Harry, the shifty, lip-chewing, pink-cheeked one. He quirks up an eyebrow and answers, “Maybe,” in a light voice, as if there’s even a slight possibility he might laugh at Harry. Still. He wants Harry to come out here for him, bare and exposed, even if there’s the threat of humiliation. 

 

Harry sighs dramatically. “They don’t fit,” he says. “Too tight. I’m, like, spilling out.” 

 

Louis bites his own arm, cock twitching alarmingly in his fist. “Jesus, _Harry_. Just come out here already and let me see you,” he says, voice coming out strangled because _fuck_ , he can’t even _pretend_ to be nonchalant about this. 

 

“Okay,” Harry sighs, elbowing his way out the door with his face half-hidden in his hands, “but don’t laugh if it’s not the, like, sexy fantasy you’ve conjured up in your mind.” 

 

Louis sits up and stares. “Baby,” he murmurs, so hot all over that he feels feverish, eyes drinking in the whole thing with such wide, electric intensity that they sting, and he has to blink, even though he doesn’t want to. “Oh, my god, baby, come here, please.” 

 

Harry’s smile is this too-bright thing, huge and shy and smug and sunshiney, and those things shouldn’t be able to exist at the same time on one boy, but they _do_ , Harry is like that. “You’re not laughing,” he mumbles, glowing from behind the tousle of his hair. 

 

“I’m actually close to crying, moved to tears, the whole lot,” Louis says, hands sweat-damp and shaky as he extends them, reaching for those handfuls of softness at Harry’s hips, mouthwatering and delectable just like he knew they’d be. “You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” he says honestly, thumbing over the waistband of the knickers, merlot against the peachy white of Harry’s skin. 

 

Harry come closer, shuffling across the floor bashfully. “You’re so _easy_! I look so stupid, and you’re _drooling_.” He alights his hands on Louis’s shoulders, standing flat-footed and awkward in the least coy way possible, and it _should_ be absurd, he _should_ look stupid with these too-tiny boy shorts riding up into the crack of his ass, and his half-hard cock curved upward toward his belly and hardly contained by the flimsy crotch of the panties. A bit of his shaft is exposed through the leg hole, the rest of him flushed and gorgeous through the lace, and Louis thumbs over it reverently over the bare skin, making Harry jump. 

 

“You don’t look stupid. You look…you look—” he struggles, since nothing at all in the English language could possibly encompass the way Harry looks right now, or _ever_ , really. 

 

“—like a boy in knickers?” Harry asks, wrinkling up his nose like that’s a _gross_ thing, an embarrassing thing to be. Louis’s heart kicks in his chest, and he wets his lips with his tongue. 

 

“Yes. Like a boy in knickers,” he murmurs breathily. “Turn around, lemme see your bum.” 

 

Harry makes a pitiful, shamed noise as he does it, and the sound goes straight to Louis’s dick. He palms over Harry’s sides as he spins, teeth in his lip because Harry is so fucking _gorgeous_ , awkward and long and gangly as he arches his back and looks over his own shoulder at his ass. “S’ the wrong shape, like, they’re made for girls so they fit me all wrong,” he explains, snapping the elastic against his skin. 

 

_Fuck_ , Louis thinks wildly, cupping the pale swell of his cheeks and squeezing, pulling them apart and watching the lace creep further into his crack. “I know,” he whispers, dragging his hands down Harry’s thighs, his skin drawn up into gooseflesh, pink and lovely, and he can’t _wait_ to get it between his teeth. “They don’t fit you right at all, and it’s lovely, love you falling out of them, love where they’re too tight, love you,” he says, hooking his fingers into the waistband and tugging Harry in so he can get his mouth on him. 

 

He bites him once, hard, right above the waistband, and Harry yelps before it trails off into a keening sound, and he goes still. Louis sucks hard, swirling his tongue so he can feel the indentations his teeth left, hands spread wide and greedy over the tight curve of Harry’s ass. “Come here, baby,” he says, wrapping his arms around Harry’s waist and dragging him into bed, grinning against his skin at the way he goes so limp and pliant and sweet in his arms. “On your back so I can look at you.” 

 

Harry rolls onto his back easily, thighs falling apart so Louis can really _stare_ , fix his eyes to the obscene bulge of Harry’s cock straining against the deep red, semi-translucent lace. Louis groans, mouth watering at the way Harry’s cock twitches as he looks, precum leaking out and darkening the delicate fabric. “You’re so pretty, baby,” he says, gently rubbing the back of his hand over Harry’s shaft, breath catching at the scrape of lace, the way Harry lets his head fall back as he whimpers with that soft, wet mouth. Harry loves to say he’s embarrassed, loves to act shy and flustered while he burns up in the heat of Louis’s gaze, but past a certain point, he gets like this. Loose and hungry and shameless, legs splayed and eyes half-lidded, obscene mouth plush and filthy and begging. He rolls his hips up into Louis’s touch, then whines when Louis takes his hand away, sliding it up his quaking abdominals instead. 

 

“Lou,” he murmurs, making a face, “do something.” 

 

“Something?” Louis asks, nuzzling into his neck and inhaling, drunk on the way his skin smells when he’s turned on, fire and musk and magic. “Anything?”

 

“No,” Harry says, thrusting in the air fruitlessly, lifting his ass off the bed only to thump back down, frustrated. “Touch my cock.” 

 

Louis holds him down with a hand planted firmly on his hip, thumb catching on the lace. “God, look at you, _fuck_ ,” he swears, rubbing his palm over Harry’s bulge and watching him cry out. “You like it? Does it feel more sensitive?” 

 

“Kind of hurts. They’re tight and the lace is scratchy and they’re shoved, like, really far up my ass,” Harry says, lashes fluttering against the pale curve of his cheek, and _fuck_ , Louis can’t help it, he bites down hard on his shoulder, sucking fiercely so the sharpness makes Harry writhe. 

 

Then he hooks a finger into the crotch of the panties, just above Harry’s taint, and tugs up, dragging them more snugly into his crack, rubbing against his hole. “Oh?” he asks, licking the bite mark, loving how Harry’s pale skin blooms so easily in bruises. “Are you telling me you like when things _kind of hurt_?” He pretends to be surprised, and Harry chuffs out a weak laugh, hips pumping pathetically into the air. 

 

“Yeah,” he says in a low, thick voice, sounding totally shot. Louis’s stomach drops, his mouth suddenly feeling unbearably empty.

 

He props himself up on his elbows, scooting down the bed and chewing his way along Harry’s body, nipping his collar bones, his puffy nipples, the sweet, perfect indent beneath the slight swell of his pecs. He can taste the salt on his skin, clean sweat tangy with arousal, and it’s so good, he’s so fucking _lucky_ he gets this boy in his bed, under his tongue. “You look so, so good, baby,” he breathes, propping his forehead on the jut of Harry’s ribcage so he can stare at his erection flexing in its prison of lace, leaking so much his fingers come back sticky as he ghosts them over the familiar shape of Harry’s cockhead. “You want my mouth?” 

 

“ _God,_ ” Harry whines, kicking weakly in the air with one foot, back arching. “Please.” 

 

Louis is already pressing soft, fluttering kisses all over the front of Harry’s knickers, taking his time, dizzy with the smell of his skin, stomach lurching at the way Harry’s thick cock is barely contained. His pubic hair visible through the leg holes and over the top of the waistband is somehow so much more obscene than if he were just _naked_ , the filthiest thing Louis has ever seen, and he’s nearly _drooling_ as he mouths over the burning line of Harry’s length, tongue dragging over the delicate lace weave. 

 

Harry cries out from just the heat of his breath, yelping again when Louis really gets his mouth over him, fitting his lips over the head of Harry’s cock and sucking him through the lace, groaning at the way he can taste his precum in the fabric, salty and bitter and boyish and perfect. He tongues him roughly, breathing through his nose and letting his mouthful of accumulated saliva drip messily out so he gets the lace _soaked_ , rutting messily into the bedspread all the while. 

 

—-

 

“God, you’re so beautiful,” Louis breathes, rubbing his face into the junction of Harry’s thigh and crotch and inhaling, palming greedily over his cock and squeezing him through the lace. Harry is so fucking overwhelmed, so sensitive that Louis _hurts_ , his hands and his stubble and his teeth. Harry _loves it_ , loves feeling so possessed, so yearned for. Louis is dizzying. “Taste so good, baby, I gotta—-“ he hears him murmur before his eyes are snapping open and he’s being manhandled onto his stomach, Louis grabbing his thigh and flipping him over and pushing him into the sheets roughly, just how he likes it. 

 

He doesn’t remember how to use words, not at all. He just makes an unintelligible groaning noise and spills over in a mess of limbs, spreading out on the bed, arching his back and pushing his ass into the air because he’s pretty sure it’s what Louis wants, wants to fuck him or finger him, get up inside him somehow. 

 

Louis is petting his back, smoothing his hands over him in broad strokes, palming down his ass and squeezing it firmly before thumbing him apart. Harry has time to register a huff of breath on his hole before he realizes what’s happening, Louis holding the lace out of the way so he can get his tongue on him, _in_ him. It’s wet and filthy and slippery and hot, so Harry twists back desperately, shoving his ass in Louis’s face and screwing down into the sheets at the same time, loving the way his cock aches without the relief of pressure, the lace still trapping it snugly against his lower belly. Louis is making so much _noise_ while he licks him out, little groans and kitten whines, and he’s so fucking sloppy and burning, flicking his tongue over the rim of muscle before dipping easily into it because Harry’s fucking _easy_ right now, feeling so dirty and open and slutty in these knickers. He drools on the bedspread, mouth open as he rocks against the sheets, pushing himself back onto Louis’s searing tongue with every stilted buck. He’s getting louder and louder, and it doesn’t even _sound_ like him, just these animal gargling noises he hardly recognizes, but Louis feels so fucking _good_ , filthy as he holds Harry open and presses soft, messy kisses right onto his hole, making it flutter hungrily for something _bigger_ , something inside. 

 

“Please,” he chokes out, fisting with a white-knuckled grip in the duvet, back arched deep so he can get as much of Louis’s mouth as possible. “Please, Lou, touch me, fuck me,” he begs. 

 

Louis curses, pulling away and letting the knickers spring back into place with a snap. It makes Harry yelp; he wants Louis _back_ , wants the weight of him covering his body, his hands all over his skin. It’s _scary_ , actually, the crazy desperation he feels to have Louis everywhere, all the time, it’s scary because it’s _impossible_ , but he just wants him and wants him and wants him. He sobs weakly, grinding his cock into the duvet so hard his breath snags over the words, “ _Louis_ , please. ” 

 

“I got you, baby,” Louis murmurs, right into his ear, lips feeling swollen and raw from the way he was scouring them against lace, the way he was eating his ass. Harry shudders, wordlessly whining as Louis kisses his temple. He can smell Louis’s spit on his face, he can smell his own _ass_ , and it’s so fucking _hot_ , the way Louis buries himself in him, the way Louis wants every single thing, even if it’s dirty or raw or shameful. 

 

Louis must have gotten the lube out at some point while Harry was begging because his fingers are wet and sticky as they nudge up against Harry’s hole, rubbing deep, hungry circles into him as he holds the barrier of lace to the side. “M’ gonna fuck you while you’re wearing these, gonna finger you until you come inside your knickers,” he breathes, voice nothing but a tattered ruin. 

 

“Yes, please, please,” Harry says, arching his back and pushing himself against the pressure of Louis’s fingers, feeling one slip in, deep enough they both gasp. 

 

“God, you’re so hot inside,” Louis rasping, biting Harry’s neck sharply, crooking his finger before easily tucking the other one in as well. Harry whines at the stretch; it _burns_ so good, and Louis is going fast, sliding out before pushing back in as deep as he can go, breath coming so hot and fast and uneven against his ear. “Just taking me so easy, look at that. You needed this, you needed me to fuck you open like this.” 

 

Harry can’t _stand_ the things Louis says sometimes, can’t take the infernal burn of his words, so raw with yearning. Louis’s voice gets so high and wrecked and breathy that Harry can _hear_ what he does to him. “Lou,” he mumbles, licking his lips so sloppily that drool beads out the corner of his mouth and onto the duvet. “Always need you.” 

 

“You have me, baby, I’m right here, have me always,” Louis prays, lips all over Harry’s throat as he fucks him in earnest now, fingers crooked at just the right angle to hit his prostate as he pounds into him; Louis _knows_ , has Harry’s body down to a science, how to fuck him and how to break him and how to take him apart. 

 

Harry comes suddenly on the downstroke, ass clenching tight around Louis’s two fingers and holding him in as he rubs his cock into the mattress in clumsy circles, the pressure of the panties tight over his slit making his come smear up the inside of them, sticky and hot as it drips down to his thighs “Oh, my god,” he groans, so sensitive his skin hurts, fever-hot and prickly under Louis’s weight, ass burning as Louis fucks him slow and deep through the aftershocks.

 

“Wow,” Louis says brokenly as he withdraws his fingers, leaving Harry feeling loose and dirty and empty, wracking with whole-body shudders at the slick feeling between his legs. Louis rolls him over, eyes bright and dark all at once, a hungry blackness sunk deep in blue fire as he stares at Harry, his trembling thighs and heaving chest and his knickers, soaked through with spit and come and sweat. “You’re totally ruined for me,” he says. “Absolutely the most beautiful, beautiful thing.” 

 

Harry reaches out in a daze, arms open because he wants Louis in them, he wants to wrap them tight around his shoulders and never let go, hide his face in the soft, hot crook of Louis’s neck and just _smell_ him, sweat and deodorant and smoke and sex. Louis collapses onto him, though, and then he can’t smell him because he can’t breathe at all, lungs crushed beneath the heavy sprawl of Louis’s weight. He doesn’t even _care_ , just inhales weakly and coughs, too wrecked to move, to speak. He makes a contented noise into Louis’s hair, and Louis makes it back. 

 

“Thank you for the presents,” he finally says after awhile, once he figures out how to form words again. 

 

Louis snorts, kissing up his jaw line. “Thank you for indulging me.” 

 

Harry wiggles under him, remembering he hasn’t gotten Louis off. “You want to fuck my mouth?” he asks, licking his lips as Louis’s gaze snaps up, wide blue eyes and arching brows, everything sharp and mischievous and wonderful, bright and many-angled like a cut sapphire. 

 

“I mean, I can try,” Louis says, smirking, “but I’d have to get it up again. Gimme a minute.” 

 

“You came?!” Harry breathes, stomach clenching up tight because that’s _hot_ , it’s hot that Louis had him so lost in his own pleasure that he didn’t even _notice_ it, hot that Louis was so turned on he got off while he was fingering Harry in his now-ruined knickers. “When?” 

 

“When I was eating you out,” Louis says, finding Harry’s hand and pushing it down the front of his joggers so Harry can feel the way he’s sticky and slick but still half-hard, twitching under Harry’s fingers. Harry is awed and moving slowly, a little dumb and lost feeling so Louis manages to get a feel in, too, sneaking his hand between their bodies and palming over Harry’s spent cock as it shrinks beneath the lace, still too big to properly fit in the panties without showing obscenely through the side. “I rubbed off on the side of the bed, got off on how good you tasted, how pretty you looked in these,” he mumbles, snapping the elastic against Harry’s hip. “But we have, like, four more pairs, and I really want to get my cock in you when you’re wearing them, so….you could always wait a bit and put on a new pair when you’re ready. If you want me so come somewhere besides my trousers.” 

 

Harry grins, wiggling out of the cranberry boy shorts and kicking them off onto the floor, licking Louis’s come off his fingers with a loud smack. “I’ll see what I can do,” he says in his best Marilyn Monroe voice.


End file.
